


wicked and divine

by angel_yuri



Series: everybody wants to rule the world [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mafia AU, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_yuri/pseuds/angel_yuri
Summary: There are days where Yuratchka longs to come back from the dead and Yuri can feel it, can feel the pain as a hand tears through muscle and bone and emerges from his chest, winning. His heart between clenched fingers.Yuri’s life, from the age of fourteen to the age of eighteen. From Yuratchka to Aleksey’s pet.





	wicked and divine

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I decided to turn this into a series, and ‘wicked and devine’ is a sort of prequel to ‘towards the boiling sun’, exploring Yuri’s life before he became Aleksey’s “pet”. Please check out the tags and warnings, Yuri is mostly underage in this and bad things happen! If you might feel triggered or it simply isn’t your cup of tea, you might want to skip this work.

_You trick your lovers_  
_That you're wicked and divine_  
_You may be a sinner_  
_But your innocence is mine_  
_I want to reconcile the violence in your heart_  
_I want to recognise your beauty is not just a mask_  
_I want to exorcise the demons from your past_  
_I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart_

Yuratchka is soft cotton and pale, unmarked skin. Yuratchka is a ballet bar, Tchaikovsky and a dream. Yuratchka is what grandpa used to call him before -before. Now, Yuratchka is long dead, buried under the damp soil of a person he doesn’t want to be. A person he has learned, eventually: Yuri. The kitten, the seductress, all long legs and filthy smiles. A bit of spite, too, but that was there even before. Yuri is an evolution, he’s a big, old fuck you to natural selection. It’s not bad, it could be worse, but it’s not good either. There are days where Yuratchka longs to come back from the dead and Yuri can feel it, can feel the pain as a hand tears through muscle and bone and emerges from his chest, winning. His heart between clenched fingers. But then he looks down and the blood is gone, there is no gaping hole in his flesh and Aleksey calling his name drowns every little bit of surprise. Yuri, Yuri, Yuri. Maybe he’s going crazy.

“Yuri! Wake up.”

“ _Wake up_.”

He jolts awake to the sound of Beka’s voice, it takes a while to register the hand rubbing his back, the slow strokes. Gentle and reassuring. The calm after the storm. He only realises he’s clutching at his chest when Beka tries to pry his fingers open, white branches clenched so tight they might snap. His breathing is loud to his own ears, harsh gasps and sweat above his lips.

“You were having a nightmare.” Whispers Beka, as if talking out loud might startle him. As if he’s some kind of cornered animal and- no, no Beka is simply trying to help him. Beka with his strong hands and strong voice, all calm and composed until Yuri spreads his thighs.

_I love him. I love him, I love him, I lo-_

“Yes,” he says, “thank you.”

“What for?”

Beka looks young like this, half hidden in the dark with pouty lips and concerned brows. Yuri never thought he’d ever see him so open, so soft, but now that he has he can’t deny that having a lion purr under your hands is a rush of power.

“For waking me.”

Beka nods and Yuri nods and they go back to sleep, except that Yuri doesn’t, not really. He stays half awake staring at the ceiling until the sun rises, every time he closes his eyes blood coats his lashes.

***

They started noticing when he was sixteen, the boys. The men, though, they started much earlier. Fourteen, perhaps. They lived next door, two of them. Yuri remembers the sound of the door slamming close in the middle of the night, he remembers the sound of sex and laughter at three a.m. The smell, the money, the filthy grins. It’s not like they could afford a better place anyway, grandpa and him. They were the first to notice his beauty when he wasn’t even aware of it himself, when he was too young and too hopeful. When the future was something to long for, not some sort of dark nebula advancing in on him, threatening. At first, it was a few lingering looks, it was Yuratchka feeling their eyes on him when he left for school in his perfectly ironed uniform and holed boots. Then, the comments started and suddenly Yuratchka found himself spending hours in front of the mirror, watching, touching the ‘nice lips’ and ‘pretty eyes’ and ‘cute hair’. Exploring, discovering. It was a curse, his beauty. He felt it burning in his veins every time one of them felt brave enough to grope him in the elevator or steal a sloppy kiss when the other wasn’t there. It was his first kiss, that one. It left him shaky, crying in his room because now even that was _ruined_.

He hated them, stupid enough not to notice they were both going after the fourteen years old boy next door. Afraid they’d be judged even though they were both sick fucks with no sense of control, high on money and drugs, high on Yuratchka’s beauty. He _hated_ them. He hated himself more, he hated his porcelain skin and his long lashes and his plump lips. His classmates went on walks at the park, they went to the movies and kissed, close mouthed, before the bell rang. Yuratchka didn’t have friends and didn’t care, he was left in an old building, taking care of grandpa, keeping quiet when dirty hands sneaked under his shirt and smeared filth all over his skin. Yuri remembers wanting to spend hours in the shower, scrubbing himself raw, and not being able to do even that, not if he didn’t want the bills to give grandpa a heart-attack. (Not if he didn’t want to starve for a few days to pay them). They didn’t fuck him. No, they were too much of a coward to do that. They didn’t want to take _that_ risk, as if the kisses and the groping weren’t bad enough. As if as long as they didn’t stick their cocks in a fourteen year-old they couldn’t be accused of anything. They didn’t fuck him, but two years later Mr. Zaytsev did.

The thing about ballet is that you have to wear appropriate clothing, and appropriate clothing means tight and sheer and revealing. The thing about dancing for Lilia Baranovskaya’s ballet school is that you have to live for it, breathe for it. It means waking up at five thirty, being at the studio a hour later and then going to school at eight o’clock. It means finishing your classes at three, doing homework until five and then going back to the studio just in time for evening practice. Yuratchka got home at eight thirty every day, he had dinner with grandpa (then, towards the end he’d be the one to do the cooking and feeding) and collapsed in bed. Dried out and bone tired, he’d fall into an exhausted sleep just to wake up a few hours later to the sound of rock music coming from the other end of the wall, a bedpost slamming continuously against it. He’d leave ballet a year later, seventeen and scared with the weight of sickness and death heavy on his shoulders. At sixteen, though, he was still caught up in a never-ending cycle of pointed shoes and Russian homework that just _didn’t make sense_.

They assigned him a tutor, the school, as if he had the time to spend another hour and a half at school every Tuesday and Thursday. As if time wasn’t already slipping through his fingers, like water that he just couldn’t grip, couldn’t stop and kept coming and piling up, up, up until it reached his head. He had to stay on his tiptoes to breathe, but Yuratchka was a ballerina, bruised feet and aching calves were his speciality. Sometimes, Mr. Zaytsev would keep him a bit longer, saying they weren’t done until he could write the essay by himself. Yuratchka learned to come already dressed for ballet class, because time was one thing he didn’t have. He was a spectacle of cream coloured tights and baby blue, soft sweaters. Underneath, a pretty, sheer vest, all wrinkled because the iron had broken once again. He should have never started wearing those things outside the studio. He loved it, dressing up for ballet. He used to skim his fingers over the soft, silky material of every piece of clothing, things Madame Lilia gave to him because she _knew_. She knew the first time she saw him step through the door, torn sweats and a threadbare t-shirt immersed in a sea of delicate fabrics and perfectly gathered hair. God, how he liked looking pretty and neat and soft in those expensive clothes. But then Mr. Zaytsev came and he ruined everything, just like those men ruined his first kiss.

He was a man of literature, a man of knowledge, a man who liked words. Yuratchka liked him a lot, he liked it when he spoke about books and when he spoke about school and he liked it when he spoke about everything. He knew how to use words and Yuratchka didn’t and he _admired_ him. He spoke about Dostoevskji and Tolstoj, about _Wuthering Heights_ and _Les Miserables_. He spoke about Goethe and Pirandello and, sometimes, he liked to speak about Nabokov. Sometimes, he liked to speak about a book titled _Lolita_ and he liked to turn his chair around and sit very close and whisper about nymphettes to a wide-eyed Yuratchka. Yuratchka, he liked him and admired him and was so busy hanging onto his every word that when Mr. Zaytsev kissed him he didn’t even pull back. When he started taking off Yuratchka’s clothes, talking about how pretty he looked in pink, he didn’t even flinch. When he bent him over his desk and fucked him, Yuratchka came. He spent the entire night wondering why, why had he come? Had he liked it? Had he wanted it? He was disgusting, it was so _wrong_ and he had _liked_ it. The days passed though, and the more Mr. Zaytsev touched him, the more Yuratchka became numb to those feelings inside him. So what if he liked it, who said it was so wrong? There was a book written about it and Mr. Zaytsev even loved him. He told him every time, after reminding him not to tell anyone or they would have to stop. Yuratchka didn’t want to stop, did he?

***

When grandpa died, he didn’t leave the apartment for a week, the people at the hospital kept calling his phone asking about funeral arrangements and family and Yuratchka just couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. Freshly turned eighteen, a high school dropout with nothing left, not ballet, not grandpa, not a future. He felt desperation swell inside him like a balloon, crushing organs and bursting blood vessels, a feeling so dark it clouded his vision. He was forced out of bed at some point, maybe it was the hunger, maybe it was a new feeling of restlessness that shoved him out of the apartment and urged him to run. So, he ran. He ran and ran and ran until his legs ached, his feet throbbed and his depression was under control. Until he fainted on the sidewalk because he was starving himself. Until a man came up to him, thinking he was homeless, and looked at him with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“You’re pretty.” He said, as if Yuratchka didn’t know that already. He’d been told far more than that, he’d been told he was beautiful and sexy and a little nymph. He told him to fuck off, got up and left. The man did not follow him, but the thought... it kept nagging at the back of his head, an incessant reminder of what the world expected of Yuri Plisetsky. Yuri. Plisetsky. Yuri. Now that grandpa wasn’t there anymore, who would call him Yuratchka? Who would keep his morals high, who would be there at the end of the day to tell him how good he was doing? No one. Yuri Plisetsky was alone, a rabbit in a city of wolves with nothing but a pretty face to count on. What was it that the world expected of him? He could have looked for a job, something easy and low-income, whatever. Now that grandpa’s retirement money was gone, he would need to take care of himself. A waiter, a salesboy, a dishwasher. He could have been anything but he went home, instead.

He went home, climbed the stairs and knocked on the door next to his apartment. The men were older than he remembered, much more than he expected, but he guessed drugs had that effect on people. They were surprised, at first, amused, then. They asked him if he was there for the weed, he said no. They asked him if he was there for the pills, he said no. E, heroin? No.

“Look, kid, coke’s not our business, you gotta go for the people up high to get that.”

He gave them a once over, they looked like they hadn’t showered in a few days, their teeth were yellowing already and their clothes were no better than Yuri’s. No, this wouldn’t do. Yuri knew what kind of face he had, he knew what kind of body he had. He was exclusive, he was what people wanted but couldn’t have. He was the forbidden fruit.

“How do I get there?”

“Where?”

What was it that the world expected of him?

“Up high.”

***

Dancing had always been what he did best, the control over his body, the strength of his legs and the grace of his arms. The music, the way his mind went completely blank for a few, blissful hours. When he climbed on stage for the first time, time seemed to freeze for a moment. There were men looking at him, drinks and money in their hands, excitement evident on their faces. They had dressed him up, the girls at the back. They’d put him in a pair of tight, leather shorts and a velvet t-shirt that said ‘yes, daddy’. They’d also put stuff on his face, red lipstick on his mouth and mascara on his lashes and black powder all over his eyelids. He looked awful and cheap and _too much_ and suddenly he was eight all over again, standing in front of a small crowd of parents and grandpa. His first performance, green tights and and green vest because they were performing _The Nutcracker_ and he’d be the fairy. Later on, they’d call him exactly that: the Fairy of Moscow. Grandpa’s gentle face, proud and smiling, encouraging, morphed into the one of a man shouting at him to ‘get on with it’, and reality came back to him at once.

He took a few hesitant steps towards the pole in the middle of the stage, his hands were trembling. But then he dared throw a glance to the public and, well, all it took for _them_ to look like _that_ was a few steps. His hips swinging graciously, effortlessly. This would be easy, Yuri would have them wrapped around his little finger after the first few seconds of his song. He smiled, then, a bit predatory, a bit young, and started dancing. It wasn’t the same, there were no pointed shoes on his feet and no delicate fabric shifting loosely around his frame. He had to look sexy, like he knew what he was doing, and he tried and tried and tried. He twisted his body around the pole like a snake, circling his hips, bringing his hands above his head, touching his own body slowly, carefully. They liked it, they liked it a lot and Yuri didn’t know why. He hadn’t been that good. He could read it in the expressions of the other dancers backstage, those who looked at him with pity and those who did it with smugness. But they had liked it and when he went to leave at the end of the night, feeling like nothing but a failure because dancing was his thing and now he couldn’t even do _that_ , a man stopped him short outside of the club.

His instincts were screaming at him to get defensive, but this man was wearing a suit, and it wasn’t a cheap one. No, this man had perfectly styled hair and a well-trimmed beard, he wore expensive clothing and smelled of cologne. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collarbones, revealing a slim, golden necklace and tanned skin. This was a man out of a dream.

“They said you don’t have a name.” Smiled the man, Yuri blushed.

“I haven’t decided, yet. It’s my first time.” He said it deliberately, shifting from one foot to the other. A blushing virgin.

“Then, let me tell you something. I’ve been in the business for a long time, the best thing you can do is be yourself, just like you did tonight.”

When Yuri didn’t respond, the man chuckled, deep and raw.

“I want you to come working at my club, this” he said, reaching out to carefully caress Yuri’s makeup-covered face, “doesn’t suit you.”

“Your club?”

The man’s hand moved to his hair, combing through the locks with a gentleness that seemed uncharacteristic.

“I own a club in the heart of town, the clientele is...” he made a face, pensive and a bit disgusted “different.”

“You mean reacher?” Blurted out Yuri, he’d always been salt and spice, this wasn’t going to change. The man, though, didn’t look offended. No, something sparked in his eyes, and he looked at Yuri a lot like Mr. Zaytsev used to.

“Yes, I mean reacher.” He chucked, as if Yuri was a child, endearing and painfully blunt.

“I need a name, first.” Insisted the man.

“Yuri, I’m Yuri.”

They went back to his apartment then, as expensive as the man himself. All floor to ceiling windows and black and white and marble countertops and a golden bathtub. He fucked him hard, leaving bruises and promises under his skin. He told him to shower first, as if Yuri was some cheap whore he’d taken off the streets, it was humiliating. When he came out, after spending more time than was necessary under the soothing spray of the shower, he couldn’t have been more of himself. Except, he was not. Yuri smelled like roses and the make up was gone, he was engulfed in a fluffy white towel, almost the same colour of his skin, wearing nothing underneath. He looked like Yuri, but this little nymph, this kitten who got fucked in satin sheets, with ruffled hair and cum on his face, this was not Yuri. This was not grandpa’s Yuratchka. God, if grandpa was seeing this... Yuri could only hope he’d turn around. He spent the night, but he didn’t get an ounce of sleep. No, the bed was too soft and the comforter was too comfortable, Yuri didn’t get to have this, not after what he’d just done.

The next weekend he was at _Tigr_ , skimpy clothes on and glitter all over his body, but he looked nothing like he had on his first performance. The man, Dimitri, had been right, these people looked loaded. They were all dressed sharply, with combed back hair and Rolexes on their wrists. And the club, well, it was kind of obvious why these people would go there to watch kittens dance. It wasn’t too big, just three stages and two floors, it gave the impression of intimacy, of exclusivity. The entire upper floor was VIPs only, circle-shaped with a clear view of the stages downstairs. It was all very modern-looking, not a place where old-money would feel comfortable. Yuri was scheduled for the central stage, that night, his _first_ night. Why would Dimitri do that? He’d been terrible the week before, he certainly wasn’t going to learn the tricks of the trade in seven days. The other dancers had been giving him dirty looks all night, as if they knew how he’d gotten the job, as if they knew exactly how easily he’d given into Dimitri’s requests. Well, hadn’t they? Yuri was quite sure these pretty boys and girls didn’t just get to work at _Tigr_ without making some sacrifices. Whatever, they could think what they wanted, Yuri was still the one who got to dance on the main stage. God, the main stage. Little did he know that in less than a month he’d be noticed by the devil himself. The man at the top of the chain, the man he’d sell himself to without looking back. The man he’d come to hate and despise, the one who would put a collar on his ankle, chaining him like a dog. The one who would hurt him over and over again.

That first night, though, he didn’t know about Aleksey. That first night, he only knew about the man -the boy, actually- sat at the bar, the one with the dark hair and dark eyes and stoic features. The one who looked at him walking to the stage like he was some kind of angel fallen from heaven. He danced for him that night, he danced for the man he’d later learn was named Beka. 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on tumblr as angel-yuri!


End file.
